At the request of my readers, I'm making a masterlist for all of my fic content here on Tumblr. This will link to my fic posts on Tumblr, and also to the two masterlists I have listed in my current bio.
Gonna throw this under a cut for whoever doesn't want to deal with it.
Strong as Stone Masterlist (Okoye x M'Baku, Black Panther and MCU). [Complete.]
CHC Masterlist (Piotr Rasputin aka Colossus x Reader, Deadpool Movieverse, general X-Men fandom, and MCU).
The Hands that Heal (Lin Beifong x Reader, Avatar: Legend of Korra).
Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five: Chapter One, Part Five: Chapter Two, Part Five: Chapter Three, Part Six: Chapter One, Part Six: Chapter Two, Part Seven, Part Eight, Part Nine, Part Ten, Part Eleven, Part Twelve, Part Thirteen, Part Fourteen, Part Fifteen, Part Sixteen, Part Seventeen
Only Here to Sin (Sevika x Reader, Arcane: League of Legends). [Complete as of now.]
Part One, Part Two, Part Three
I Wanna Feel You from the Inside (Sevika x Reader, Arcane: League of Legends). [Complete as of now.]
Let's Call it a Draw Between Us (Sevika x Reader, Arcane: League of Legends). [Complete.]
Part One, Part Two
Old Dogs and New Toys (Grayson x Reader, Arcane: League of Legends).
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Navigating gender dysphoria? Be heard and be counted in the science.
Join our confidential, cross-country study of 18-25 year olds to tell your story, challenge preconceptions, and have YOUR experience reflected in the science on queer youth | ayagdos.org
IF YOU SEE THIS DO NOT TAKE THIS SURVEY. THIS IS A BAD FAITH STUDY TARGETING TRANS YOUNG PEOPLE FROM SOME OF THE LEADING MINDS OF THE ANTI TRANS MOVEMENT. DO NOT TAKE AT ALL.
Alright now that itâs not the middle of the night let me add some more context: All leading researchers of this studyâJ. Michael Bailey of Northwestern University, Lisa Littman, and Kenneth Zuckerâhave longstanding professional associations with research frameworks that challenge or reject gender-affirming models of care. Many trans-led organizations, advocates, and researchers are urging families NOT to participate in this study, as the data collected will be skewed to promote false and harmful narratives about trans people, and will be weaponized by lawmakers looking to pass discriminatory bills.
(Information above from PFLAG National)
Bailey has spent the last 20+ years of his professional career attacking the Trans community â he has been accused of misconduct MULTIPLE times around not getting informed consent for the research he does.
PLEASE SPREAD THE WORD THEY ARE BLAZING THEIR POST TRYING TO REACH THE QUEER COMMUNITY ON TUMBLR.
Im working with some new brushes and lighting! Also working on learning eviromental light! If you have more ideas for more Sevika scenarios let me know >:)
my greatest accomplishment in life is that I inadvertently made my friend break up with her shitty boyfriend by throwing her a really fucking awesome birthday party
okay so I fucking love event planning and decorating and hosting and baking, aka all the elements of a banger birthday party. I am so freaking happy to throw people parties because it means I get to throw a party, then go to a party! yippee!
so my friend's birthday rolled around and I knew she wanted a party because I'd done them for her before, but I wanted to make it extra special because she was turning the big 25. so I did all the regular stuff I am So Excited About: had her roommates let me into her apartment while she was out, put up balloons and homemade garlands and streamers and table decor, made her favorite cake and snack plates and cocktails, ordered catering from a restaurant she loves, got a bunch of our friends to come over to surprise her, wrote her a disgustingly heartfelt card, etc. and then because it was the big quarter century, I was like I gotta do something extra.
now. I do not like clowns. my friend loves clowns. we've gone to the circus together and she's seen me literally close my eyes and hide when the clowns are out in the audience, meanwhile she's screaming and waving at them. so obviously I hired a clown for her birthday. (btw seeing him out of clown costume made me less freaked out because now I knew that the guy under there looks like someone's uncle.)
so she showed up after work totally expecting a party because I'm too paranoid to throw a real surprise party, and obviously loved it. and then I was like btw. there's a clown.
she lost her mind. she was sooo excited. she loved the party and she loved the clown. I was like haha yes I'm getting a good grade in birthday parties and didn't think much of it because frankly I do this a lot, and it's so much fun for me that I don't consider it work. like, I love doing all that for my friends. it's not any kind of sacrifice.
two days later, she texted me that she broke up with her boyfriend.
naturally I was like omg tell me everything I hated that guy let's get coffee. so we did and she told me that for her birthday, her boyfriend of nine months 1) forgot about it and didn't get her anything, 2) got mad at her for not texting him while she was at her party, 3) got mad at her for telling him about the party because it was "passive aggressive", and 4) called her immature and stupid for being excited about a clown at her birthday.
this was all very in character for him. but she'd just come from a lovely birthday party full of her friends who love her and want to put effort into making a nice day for her, where her friend who hates clowns hired a clown just to make her happy even though the party alone would've been plenty. and suddenly this wasn't a boyfriend being kinda forgetful and lazy, it was a glaring incongruity with everyone else in her life. so she finally dumped his ass. and I was soooo freaking happy. so clowns can be good.
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Old Dogs and New Toys: Part Three -Dress Rehearsal.
Part One, Part Two
Summary: The week leading up to the Snowdown Gala is unmitigated entropy.
Every year, Grayson forgets just how miserably chaotic the end of the year is in Piltover. Calendar holidays automatically generate a lot of activity âif only because the mandatory vacation time and traditional celebrations lead to an increase in drinking. The increase in drinking, naturally, leads to an increase in arrests resulting from stupid, drunken spats. Snowdown, as the penultimate holiday of the year, is the crown jewel of such intoxicated chaos. Add in shit weather, and trying to organize duty rosters around the aforementioned mandatory vacation time, and it all becomes one big headache.
Grayson lifts her mug of coffee to her lips, then scowls when she realizes itâs empty. She jabs at the button for her intercom system. âLana, would you bring me a fresh cup of coffee, please?â
Pairing(s): Grayson x Reader, mentioned CaitVi.
Rating: T for implied death, political intrigue, police investigation, classim, and overconsumption of coffee.
Word count: 17.1k OOPS.
Author's Note:
Okay. I honestly thought I'd never get here.
It's been a long time. I wasn't intending to go on an unexpected hiatus. I was still actively writing and posting in 2024... and then my husband fell off a ladder at work and broke his arm and two teeth.
He had worker's comp, but the time out of work really hurt our finances. We nearly faced foreclosure in early 2025. We're okay now, still in our home, but the stress of his injury, care, and our finances and housing just shut me down.
I'm so indescribably happy to be back to writing. Thank you everyone who left me comments and encouragement. I don't think, at this point, I can respond to everything piled up in my inbox, but know I have read and cherished every message sent my way.
I don't know what posting is going to be like from now on. I still want to continue this story (and others under my name), but the stress from 2024 took a major toll on my chronic health issues. I'm still recovering, and I don't know if I'll ever fully get back to where I was.
Thank you for understanding, for being patient, and for reading.
Also, massive shout out to @words-by-marshmallow for encouraging me through the past almost 2 years. Without you, this piece would've never been finished, let alone posted. I owe you everything, my friend. <3 <3 <3
Monday; 2:47pm.
The week leading up to the Snowdown Gala is unmitigated entropy.
Every year, Grayson forgets just how miserably chaotic the end of the year is in Piltover. Calendar holidays automatically generate a lot of activity âif only because the mandatory vacation time and traditional celebrations lead to an increase in drinking. The increase in drinking, naturally, leads to an increase in arrests resulting from stupid, drunken spats. Snowdown, as the penultimate holiday of the year, is the crown jewel of such intoxicated chaos. Add in shit weather, and trying to organize duty rosters around the aforementioned mandatory vacation time, and it all becomes one big headache.
Not to mention the Gala itself.
Piltoverâs annual Snowdown Gala has been a standing tradition for nearly as long as the city's existence. Itâs one of the largest annual society events. Affluent members of the Merchantsâ Guild, old money families whose blood runs bluer than her uniform jacket, sparkling socialites from overseas, and the Council members and their families all join together in the ballroom of Piltoverâs Gala Hall after sunset on Snowdown. They wine, dine, socialize, network, and dance the night away into the wee pre-dawn hours. Itâs a cold war of social climbing and territory marking. Everyone breaks out their finest wear and jewels âeffecting armor to the scrutinous eyes crowding the ballroom floor. Everyone judges each other without saying a word âwho has the most suitable shoes; whoâs up on the latest fashion; who best displays their wealth through their jewelry without being gauche.
If she wasnât expected to attend, as both the Sheriff of Piltover and a member from a respectably old family in Piltovan society, Grayson would gladly stay home and ignore the whole mess.
Of course, to top it all off, any soiree that merits the presence of all Council members mandates the presence of a special security force âwhich, as Sheriff, she has to select and organize personally. Then, she has to make sure that her clothes and shoes are in order for the gala (not terrible, but it just takes more time out of her already packed schedule). To top it all off, New Yearâs follows a few weeks later, which means more patrols to break up booze-induced brawls. Not to mention performance reviews as things roll into the New Year; reviewing precinct statistics for arrests, closed cases, and complaints; revising budgets for the upcoming yearâŚ
There arenât enough hours in the fucking day. Grayson lifts her mug of coffee to her lips, then scowls when she realizes itâs empty. She jabs at the button for her intercom system. âLana, would you bring me a fresh cup of coffee, please?â
The notepad for her to-do list is battered, pages stained through with blue and black ink, and the bindingâs on its last threads âmuch like her sanity and will to keep from retiring.
Precinct statistical review with Inspector Cragen.
Review updates to firearm safety and handling guide for new recruits.
Wednesday: pick up chicken for dinner.
Go over gala duty rosters with Marcus.
Lunch meeting.
Meeting with Caitlyn on Friday, 4:15; black market division.
Polish dress shoes.
Grayson sighs, then tries focusing on the shipping district end of year arrest and closure rate report. The report in front of her does little to ease the stress of the impending deadlines, or the lack of coffee in her cup.Â
It starts inauspiciously, as nearly everything seems to, as of late. Thereâs a conspicuous spike in arrests around the docks.
Drunk and disorderly conduct. Drunk and disorderly conduct. Drunk and disorderly conductâŚ
More suspicious still, practically every arrest notes that the detainee hails from some part of Zaun.
Sump. Sump. Entresol. Sump. Promenade. SumpâŚ
And yet, for some inexplicable reason, almost all of the arrests resolve in a full dismissal of all charges. The reason given in nearly every judicial summary?
âInsufficient evidence to support charges.â
Nearly all the arrests are logged at midday âwhich, as it so happens, times out perfectly with when factory and dock workers are due to return from their mandatory lunch break. A vast majority of the factories and docks outsource labor to Zaun, since the labor comes cheap and is easily replaced. Combined with the new batch of academy recruits recently promoted to officers, and that all of the workers are Zaunites, she doubts that thereâs a sudden bout of alcoholism plaguing the workers.
Grayson scowls as she scans down the line of charges and dismissals. I didnât realize weâd promoted a bunch of buffoons this year. She flips to the next page, then lets out an exasperated sigh. If they wanted to go on a power trip, you think theyâd have the fucking brains to cover their tracks better.
The door to her office swings open, and she lets out a quiet sigh of relief. âThank you, Lana. Justââ
âOh, things must be bad, if youâve already forgotten my name.â
She perks up, eyes widening at the sound of your voice. She smiles at the sight of mirth twinkling in your eyes as you approach her desk with a steaming cup of coffee. âWhat are you doing here?â
âHad a minute. Decided to stop in and make sure you hadnât merged with your desk chair into one homogenous organism.â
Grayson lets out a tired laugh as she stands. âI wouldnât count out the possibility just yet.â
âOh, Iâm sure.â You round the corner of her desk, then lean in to kiss her cheek. âHello, dearest.â
âDarling.â She tilts her head and captures your lips with her own. âYou have no idea,â she murmurs once the two of you part, âhow happy I am to see you.â
You hum and smirk wryly. âAre you saying that to meâŚâ You lift the steaming mug of coffee into her field of view. âOr them?â
âTo you, of course,â she answers âwhilst reaching for the mug. She grins when you laugh, then tries to take it in earnest.
You move your hand out of her reach. âLana said this was your seventh cup today.â
âAnd?â She raises one eyebrow at you. âHow many have you had?â
You purse your lips. Your tongue sweeps along the inside of your cheek. Then, without further argument, you hand her the cup of coffee.
âThatâs what I thought.â She takes a sip, hums appreciatively, then sets the new mug next to the empty one on her desk. âHow is your day going?â
âEh.â You shrug, then sit down in her lap once she sits again and holds out an arm in invitation. âEnd of the semester, term papers are due, lots of grading, last minute office hours, performance evaluationsâŚâ
âIn the same boat, then,â she surmises when you make a âand so onâ gesture with one hand.
âEssentially.â
Grayson hums, understanding, and rubs your knee with her thumb. âWe could take some vacation time after the New Year.â
âWhat would we do?â
She considers for a moment, only for her mind to stall completely. Finally, she shrugs, and says, âSleep,â before bursting into chuckles.
You laugh along with her. âHonestly, thatâs not a half badââ
Thereâs a firm rap on the door, and then Lana pokes her head in. âIâm so sorry, Sheriff, but thereâs an urgent missive from Azure Acquisitions.â
Grayson bites back a curse. âAzure Acquisitionsâ is code-speak. Specifically, one of their many confidential informants called in to report on any one of the numerous Piltovan clansâ private security forces. The fact that thereâs an unscheduled report means that whateverâs in the message is going to warrant a headache and at least three more cups of coffee. She sighs, then pats your thigh apologetically. âOne moment, darling.â
âItâs alright.â You stand âand sneak a sip of her coffee while she gets up.
Grayson glares at you fondly, then strides over to Lana. She closes the door to her office behind her, stepping into the vestibule where Lanaâs work station resides. âWhatâs our status?â
âFreeday Street has gone dark,â Lana murmurs. The hallway outside her office and the other command offices is empty, but prudence demands caution. The number of leaks in the department is reminiscent of a sieve. âNo new landings, no lights on across the way. Rumor has it the Iron Lady was seen in the district the night before.â
Fuck. Grayson pinches the bridge of her nose.
âFreeday Streetâ is code for the United Bridges Coalition. Itâs a small, grassroots organization promoting unity between Piltover and Zaun âand, more importantly, recognition of Zaun as an independent nation. By habit and necessity, the department has been watching the United Bridge Coalition for nearly a year now. Any political activism group automatically warrants observation, if only as a precaution.Â
Fortunately, United Bridges hasnât run into any legal trouble with Piltoverâs enforcers. Graysonâs willing to bet that whoever is in charge of running the group is clever âand connectedâenough to slip beneath their radar.
Unfortunately, United Bridges has been gaining traction with the common people on both sides of the river âand attention from the Council and merchant clans of Piltover. Recently, United Bridges has headed several protests regarding labor law violations in many of Piltoverâs factories and refineries. Thereâs been several headlines âa few written by you, no lessâimplicating some of the merchant guildâs biggest players in the alleged illegal conduct.
And now, the United Bridges Coalition has gone dark, meaning that the building theyâve been using for meetings and to head up charitable efforts has been abandoned. âNo landingsâ means thereâs no new, undocumented arrivals in Stillwater. âNo lights on across the wayâ means thereâs no chatter in the Zaun to suggest that the movement members retreated to friendlier waters across the bridge.
Then, thereâs the âIron Lady.â
Fucking Camille.
The Ferros clan has one of the largest private security forces in Piltover âled by none other than Camille Ferros, the matriarch of the clan. Her choice to augment her body with Hextech had raised more than a few eyebrows in Piltovan high society. Grayson, for one, hadnât really cared âuntil sheâd seen it in action, first hand. Admittedly, being able to jump down the tiers of buildings and soar along the rooftops with the aid of Hextech powered cables was pretty neat. If sheâd been younger âand more foolishâGrayson might even be envious.
Itâs become clear, though, that Camille had greater motivations than assuaging ailing joints. The new body modifications let her easily zip ahead of Graysonâs enforcers (and any resistance from Zaun).
âHow substantiated are the rumors?â
Lana grimaces. âThere are multiple civilian reports of seeing her in the area.â
Which means that the bodies of United Bridgeâs members are likely in the bottom of the Pilt. If Grayson had to hazard a guess, the labor law violation protests and investigations snuck too close to the Ferros clanâs factories.
As if I didnât have enough problems already. Grayson ânarrowlyâfends off the urge to grind her teeth. âGet Spec Ops on the case. Iâll see if I can track down any survivors.â She turns and steps back into her officeâ
You set a pen back in the canister on her desk. âI have to get going.â
Weariness rolls through her. Grayson sighs. âIâm sorryââ
âItâs fine, Gray.â You round her desk, then cup her face with both hands. âIâll see you tonight. I was thinking we could have dizi for dinner?â
She groans. âHave I ever mentioned how much I love you?â
You grin, eyes crinkling at the corners. âMaybe once.â You roll up on the balls of your feet and kiss her. âOr twice.â
She kisses you again. âI love you.â
âI love you, too.â
She watches you leave âwhat a viewâthen ambles back to her desk once the door thumps shut behind you. She sits slowly, grunting slightly when her knees pop, then scans her to-do list once more.
Thereâs a new addition âright at the top, in the header margin of the page, written in neat, flowing cursive.
Bed your wife.
Grayson smirks. She shakes her head with a chuckle, then pulls out a sheet of paper to start writing a note to her contact in Zaun. Once we have the time, dearest. Maybe when the world ends.
âŚ
Monday; 11:53pm.
Muddy water, cast over with an iridescent sheen of oils and chemicals, splashes beneath her boots. The uneven, buckling cobblestone streets would prove a hazard to her ankles if she wasnât so used to navigating the narrow, twisting paths of the Lanes.
That, and the ventilation system had done wonders for clearing out the green smog that used to choke Zaunâs lowest levels. Vander hadnât had much to say about the construction project a few years ago, when the installation was in its infancy âbut the way heâd dodged her gaze had told her he knew more than he was letting on.
The blatant secrecy hadnât really mattered to Grayson. The funding âas far as any investigation could tellâwas above board. The work site was safe by Undercity standards, and the shipped materials were legitimate. Plus, the project created local work for Zaunites, which, at the time, had done a lot to ease tensions between the cities. That, and she wasnât about to police who had access to breathable air, and who didnât.
Thereâs little else to ease the long walk home, though âespecially in light of the meeting at Benzoâs shop.
âWe havenât heard anything,â Vander had informed her, expression and voice grave. âNo oneâs seen any of them for a few days now.â
She grimaces. As much as sheâd expected the worst case scenario, she hadnât exactly been looking forward to all the complications that came along with it.
âYou might have better luck with the missus,â Benzo had commented. âSheâs got more ties to that kind of thing.â
Heâs not wrong. Grayson knows Benzo isnât wrong. But sheâll be damned if she drags you into this mess âand into the Ferros clanâs crosshairsâon purpose.
She avoids the trolley. Thereâs a series of private lifts that go right up to Piltoverâs streets, accessible only to Enforcers (or those capable of bypassing the key system required to start the lift engines). Itâs an uneventful ride up, and the rumble of the engine settles in her tired mind like fog. Grayson leans against the back wall, all thoughts dissipating while she stares, unfocused, off into space.
The sunâs long since set. Here, the electric street lamps, at least, keep the streets from falling into total blackout. The roads are smoother, better maintained. Here, she doesnât have to worry quite so fervently about being recognized as Piltoverâs sheriff, and thus being jumped for petty âbut perhaps still fairâvengeance.
Graysonâs feet autopilot her home. After a little over thirty years, her body knows the way back to you, no input from her mind required.
The porch light for your home is on. She can see the yellow glow of the halogen bulb from down the street. As she approaches, though, she spots a cloaked figure sitting on the front step. Out of habit, she reaches for the pistol she keeps holstered at her hip.
The cloak turns out to be a blanket âa plaid, thick flannel normally kept draped over the back of your armchair in the parlor.
You stand when she turns down the front walk, hurrying down the steps to meet her halfway.
âWhat are you doing up?â Her voice is rough, even to her own ears. âItâs terribly late.â
âI wanted to make sure you got home alright.â You kiss her wind-chilled cheek, then press a warm thermos into her hands. âTea. Letâs get you inside, love.â
A bit of weariness ebbs from her aging bones, replaced by the soothing warmth of being in your caring hands. She lets you usher her inside and take off her jacket. âIâm sorry for missing dinner.â
âItâs fine, Gray.â You hang up her coat, then kneel to get her boots next. âIâll warm up a bowl for you.â
âI can do thatââ
âHush, and drink your tea.â
She smirks faintly, bemused, and takes a sip of tea. Delicate flavors of lavender and honey dance over her tongue. A blissful, grateful groan passes her lips. âTrying to get me to sleep?â
âI wasnât sure how many cups of coffee youâve had since this afternoon âbut now youâre here, Iâm not so sure youâll need my help. You look like youâre about to fall asleep on your feet.â
âWouldnât be the first time.â
You herd her over to one of the dining room chairs, then head into the kitchen. âWhat business did you have in Zaun?â
Grayson blinks. Sheâs too tired to come up with a good excuse âor to hide her shock at being found out. â...How did youââ
âYou smell like smog, Gray,â you interject lovingly. âAnd your boots are a mess.â
She sighs heavily, then scrubs her face with one hand. âIâll shower before bed.â
âItâs fine.â You stir the pot of stew youâre reheating atop the stove. âWhy did you need to go to the Lanes?â
Grayson sighs. I shouldnât have married someone smarter than me.
She doesnât want to involve you. She doesnât even want to breathe a suggestion of the United Bridge Coalition and the Ferros clan to you. For the first time in a very long time, youâve managed to scrape through the year without any death threats. Thatâs a record sheâd like to keep.
âYou might have better luck with the missus. Sheâs got more ties to that kind of thing.â
Benzoâs advice echoes through her weary mind. Her throat feels tight as she swallows. âDoâŚâ She undoes the top couple of buttons on her shirt, then clears her throat. âDo you know anyone in the United Bridges Coalition?â
âOh. Yes, actually! A few of the founding members are former students of mine.â
Fuck.
ââwent on to be my first masterâs studentââ You set a bowl of dizi in front of her, only to freeze mid-sentence. âGray?â Your expression âtired, but amiableâfalls as you take in her downcast grimace. For a long, silent, arduous moment, you stare at her. Pain and dread clouds over your face. At last, you set a spoon in front of her with a muted clink. âGrayâŚâ Your throat bobs visibly. âWhyâŚâ
âWould youââ She has to stop and try again when tears start shining in your eyes. âWould you know their next of kin?â
You jolt, as though physically struck. âI⌠only for one or two of them.â Your chin quivers. âDo youâŚâ
Grayson presses her lips together, then reaches out and takes your hand. She squeezes it, hoping to impart even some paltry comfort. âI do, yes.â
A shaky, broken sigh ripples through you. You sniff, then nod. âOkay.â
Grayson lets go of your hand when you pull away. She watches, heart in pieces, as you disappear into the pantry, then slumps down in her chair. The one thing that never gets any fucking easier. She sighs, then picks up her spoonâ
Thereâs the familiar clank of glass, and then you reappear with a bottle of wine and two glasses in hand. You set both glasses on the table, open the bottle, then pour a generous helping for each of you. âI donât know how well thisâll pair up. I just grabbed the closest bottle.â
âThatâs fine.â Grayson swallows a spoonful of dizi, then slides her chair over when you pull yours around so you can sit next to her. She leans over and kisses your temple. âIâm sorry.â
âThank you.â You gulp down some wine, then lay your head against her shoulder.
Itâs not the easiest thing, eating while youâre nestled against her like this, but she makes it work. Gods know sheâs had to struggle through far worse.
Silence settles over the table, save for the sounds of her spoon occasionally clacking against her bowl. The two of you live in a residential area, so thereâs no distant din of street traffic, or the thrum of Piltoverâs modest nightlife. All of your neighbors have long since gone to bed. The surrounding world is silent âsave, perhaps, for a lone dog, barking in the distance at some unseen pest.
âThis is very good,â Grayson murmurs as she slowly works through her bowl.
âThank you,â you whisper back.
âOf course.â She sets her spoon down and takes your hand in hers. âI love you.â
âI love you, too.â
âŚ
Tuesday; 11:50am.
ââand heâs still pissed that I cleaned him out! Like, what, itâs my fault he has zero poker face and the betting ability of a three day old baby? And then, he wanted to fight me for the winningsââ
Grayson chuckles. âThat went well for him, Iâm sure.â
ââand then he was mad when I made him tap out three times!â Vi throws her hands up in exasperation. âI didnât even have to fight him the third time! It was best two out of three, but he insistedââ
âAnd you didnât enjoy wiping the floor with him one bit.â
âI meanâŚâ Vi smirks, then shakes her hand in a so-so gesture. âIt was kind of fun. But it still wasnât worth the whining.â
Grayson shakes her head, then turns the corner into the fashion district. âSo, how did you shut Mylo up, in the end?â
âClaggor sat on him until he stopped complaining.â
She snorts. âThat sounds effective.â
âIt usually is âshit!â
A man dressed in a three piece suit shoves past Vi, nearly knocking her in the busy street. Grayson barely reacts in time, grabbing Viâs arm and yanking her back onto the safety of the sidewalk just before a cab whizzes by. She tucks Vi under her arm, then glares over her shoulder at the rude pedestrian. âWatch where youâre fucking going!â
âItâs fine,â Vi mutters as she rolls her shoulder.
âNo,â Grayson grumbles as she ushers them down the walkway, âitâs not.â
Progress Haberdashery isnât usually open during the lunch hour; however, thanks to her long-standing friendship and patronage, Agatha agreed to slip them in for a pick up today.
A brass bell rings overhead as Grayson pushes the front door open. She waves Vi inside, then follows, and lets the glass and bronze filigree inlay door swing shut behind her. âItâs us!â
âAh, good!â Agatha bustles to the front of the shop, hefting two tan canvas garment bags with her. âIâve got yours, too, Gray, if thatâs alright.â
Grayson nods. âThatâs fine.â
âI included a tie with Viâs, too, based on the fabric swatch you sent meââ
âOh, shit.â Viâs eyebrows spike upwards. âHowâd you manage that?â
âBasic detective work,â Grayson answers with a conspiratorial smirk. Itâd been rather easy to get Caitlyn talking about her dress âand the specific color the family tailor planned on using. Almost too easy, really. I should work with her on that. âThank you, again, Agatha.â
âYeah,â Vi chimes in with a relieved smile. âThanks so much. You made figuring this sh âstuff out a lot easier.â
Agatha smiles, eyes crinkling around the corners. âOf course! Anytime you need formal wear âor have questions about fashionâyou know where to find me.â She hands Viâs bag over to her, then holds Graysonâs bag out. âGray, yours doesnât have a tie. Your wife said she already has one picked out for you.â
Grayson smirks, then folds her bag over her forearm. âHow much do we owe you?â
âRight.â Agatha rounds the front desk, where a counting machine and an invoice book lie atop a leather desk pad. âSo, thereâs Viâs consultation, the second fitting, and then your tuxâŚâ
As Agatha racks up the billable expenses, Grayson canât help but notice how Vi tenses out of the corner of her eye. The final number Agatha rattles off isnât egregious âitâs less than sheâd expected, actuallyâbut Graysonâs heart twinges sympathetically when Vi flinches. âAlright.â She fishes her checkbook out of her inner breast pocket, lays it out on the countertop, then takes a pen proffered by Agatha and scrawls out the amount in the neatest handwriting she can manage.
As soon as theyâre out of the shop, Vi starts talking in a low, strained voice. âI wonât be able to pay you back all at once, but I get my next paycheck at the start of next week, soââ
âWe âitâs alright.â Sheâs already talked it over with you. Viâs tuxedo and shoes are a gift, so she has something for high society events. More importantly, she wouldnât take the younger womanâs money, anyway. Experience, however, tells her to wait until she and Vi are in private to hash out that Vi doesnât need to pay her back. You were also extremely skittish about money and debt when she started dating you, back in the day. âWe can talk about it later. In the meantimeââ She angles her wrist to check her watch. âWhy donât we grab lunch on the way back to my office? I can keep your tux there for today, then take it back to my home for safe-keeping, until the Gala.â
âThat sounds fine,â Vi agrees easily enough. âBut this time, itâs my treat.â
Grayson acquiesces with a small smile. âIf you insist. Thank you.â
âŚ
Tuesday; 3:47pm
ââbut overall, case closure rates in the 27th precinct have held steady this year.â
âThank goodness for small miracles,â Grayson mutters as she scans her copy of the report. She squints at a table of statistics âthen swears in Farsi before snatching up her reading glasses. âWhy the hell are the report writers determined to jam everything into as small a space as possible?â
âI ask the same question often, Sheriff,â Inspector Cragen âa middle aged, balding man with blond hairâsighs. âApparently, itâs a department-wide effort to reduce paper waste.â
Right, because itâs far less wasteful to print a barely legible report, then have to reprint everything so it can actually be read. Grayson scowls, then flips to the next page. She almost does a double-take as she scans down the rows of numbers. This isnât possible. Who the fuck screwed up the rates this badly? âAre these legitimate?â
Cragen leans forward as she hands the report over to him. He takes a moment to read through the summary, whispering under his breath while he scans the page, then nods. âI sent back the initial copy to the 28thâs supervising Captain, but apparently their report is accurate.â
Grayson pulls the report back and frowns, bewildered, down at the page. âFucking how?â
In her many, many years of work in the department, Grayson has seen âand writtenâa varied number of performance reports. Sheâs seen plenty of instances of abysmal case closure rates from certain precincts, and sheâs even seen some nigh miraculous reductions in crime rates for the city as a whole. Usually, thereâs some sort of contextual explanation âlack of departmental funding, an increase in protests, shifts in import restrictions as Noxus and Demacia wage their wars, and so on.
Crime report rates down by fifty-seven percent across the board? Arrest and closure rates up by thirty-three percent in total? Grayson scarcely refrains from gawking, but itâs a near thing. âWhat the fuck are they drinking over there? They cover most of the factory district. Burglaries and vandalism, at least, are a guaranteeââ
She stops, abruptly, as the mental map in her mindâs eye clicks into place. The factory district.
The Ferros clan was founded by industrialists and merchants, back in the first years of Piltoverâs existence. To this day, the Ferros run some of Piltoverâs largest, most profitable factories. Even though some of them are rented out to other businesses and merchants, a vast majority of the sites in the factory district have the Ferros name on them somewhere in their ledgers. As it so happens, those factories âand associated businessesâhave recently come under fire due to labor law violations âlargely in part due to protests organized by the United Bridges Coalition.
Bitterness sets in at the base of Graysonâs tongue âlike sheâs been sucking on an old, corroded penny. Her mouth twists into a sour grimace. âWhoâs the supervising Captain over the 28th precinct?â
âCaptain Yurik. Currently, heâs out on vacation in a villa near the Blue Flame Islesâ
Grayson freezes mid-way through making a note to interview Captain Yurik. She glances over a Cragen, one eyebrow arched in disbelief. âA villa. In the Blue Flame Isles.â
Inspector Cragen nods. âI believe it was a present to his wife for their 23rd anniversary.â
Grayson shares a long, knowing look with Inspector Cragen. Then, she smooths her expression into a faint, polite smile. âWell, how nice for both of them. Nowâ âshe flips to the next precinctâs summaryâ âI had some concerns about the cold case backlog in the 29th precinctâŚâ
Decades of practice see her through the conversation while, internally, her mind whirls with data points, implications, and conspiracy. A fucking villa in Blue Flame Isles on a goddamn Captainâs pay. Grayson bites back a scowl while Cragen walks her through the usual departmental woes âlack of funds, not enough manpower, uncontrollable variables, yessir. Sheâs plenty familiar. She offers a blithe comment about investing in some new crime scene evidence collection tools, then leans back in her chair as an inferno rages in her chest. Iâm going to have our forensic accountants rip Yurikâs fucking balls off.
âŚ
Wednesday; 9:37am.
âEnforcers need to develop the proper mental attitude and concentration essential to be a good shooter. To be competent with a firearm it is necessary to understandâŚâ
Grayson blinks, then squeezes her eyes shut and rubs the bridge of her nose. Fucking hell.
Reviewing firearm training manuals isnât the most riveting pastime. Someone has to do it âseveral people, actually, once one counts the shooting instructors that evaluate the manual for practical applicability, the editors that ensure proper formatting, and the departmentâs robust legal team that verifies the language and guidance in the manual matches current legal standards.
Still, Grayson refuses to be the Sheriff that doesnât know what her enforcers are learning from. Which means, every year, reviewing the latest edition of the training manual. Not that anyone can hardly tell what the writers have changed, she grouses internally as she opens her eyes and starts reading again. Itâs all the same tedious, over-explaining boilerplate.
âEnforcers need to develop the proper mental attitude and concentration essential to be a good shooter.â
She still remembers the first time she fired a gun. Her uncle had her practice before a big hunting event on her fatherâs land.
âEnforcers need to develop the proper mental attitude and concentration essential to be a good shooter.â
The crack of the rifle going off, making her ears ring. The burst of kinetic energy recoiling into her shoulder. The sharp, sulfuric burn of smoke stinging her nostrils.
âEnforcers need to develop the proper mental attitude and concentration essential to be a good shooter.â
Back then, sheâd taken to shooting like a swan to a pond. The thrill of energy and adrenaline. The satisfying ritual of practice. Itâs like exercising a muscle. Stretching, strengthening, and honing until it all becomes second nature. Sheâd soared through competitions and marksman drills alike, until sheâd earned her reputation for being one of the best shots in the region, let alone the city.
âEnforcers need to develop the proper mental attitude and concentration essential to be a good shooter.â
And then sheâd learned what it meant to shoot for something.
âTo be competent with a firearm it is necessary to understandâŚâ
Grayson slams the manual copy down on her desk and shoves her chair back with a sharp squeal. With a rough sigh, she tugs her coat off the rack next to the door and yanks it on.
Lana startles in her chair as the door swings open. âSheriff!â
âIâm going for a walk.â Grayson finishes buttoning her overcoat, then places her hat atop her head. âIâll be back in under an hour.â
âOf course.â
Grayson nods, then strides down the hall towards the elevator bank.
âŚ
Wednesday; 10:03am.
The bitterly cold morning air, at least, helps clear her mind.
Grayson grits her teeth and hikes up her scarf higher. I fucking hate it when the wind comes in off the Northern strait. Iâd rather just hop naked into a newly frozen-over pond.
Dry, fine flakes of snow swirl around her ankles, flitting down the street until they get caught on corners or betwixt the cobblestones that line the roads. They glitter in the pale morning light, even with the sun mostly hidden behind a layer of feathery, gray clouds.
Grayson walks on, trying to keep her pace brisker than the weather. She bows her head against the wind and presses on.
Thoughts keep stacking together in her mind like the paving slabs that construct the sidewalk. Ferros clan. 28th precinct. Factory district. Reduced crime and arrest rates. Labor law violation protests. United Bridges Coalition.
A sharp gust of icy wind makes her eyes water. Grayson wipes the tears away before they freeze on her skin and scowls. And a villa in the fucking Blue Flame Isles.
It all adds up to a massive pile of shit lurking right beneath her nose. And sure, sheâs not liable for Captain Yurikâs misconduct, nor the misdeeds of the officers under his command, but sheâll be damned if sheâs caught with her ass out in the morning headlines.
Right under my nose, in my own fucking department. She stomps through a pile of icy slush and rounds the corner to head East. Iâm going to put their heads on spikes and mount them atop City Hall.
As far as she can tell, it all comes back to Camille and the Ferros clan. The sighting of Camille near the headquarters for United Bridges Coalition, right after the Coalition had protested and drawn attention to labor law violations in Ferros-owned factories. The drastic drop in crime, and even more drastic increase in case closure in the 28th precinct âdespite the other precincts that covered the factory district not exhibiting similar such percentages. Sheâd checked, just in case the bizarre statistics were some sort of heaven-sent miracle. And one Captain who can suddenly afford a coastal vacation home. Grayson clenches her fists in her pockets and growls under her breath. Idiot. Itâs like heâs not even trying to hide that heâs on the take.Â
The worst part is thereâs nothing she can do right now but wait. Investigations take time âwhich sheâs learned, over and over, from her years on the force. And while all she wants to do is throttle Captain Yurik and feed him his own chopped off testicles, thereâs bigger fish to fry.Â
Grayson scowls. Specifically, one blue eyed octogenarian crazy enough to modify her own body so she can fling herself from rooftop to rooftop like some type of psychotic flying fucking squirrel.Â
Sweeping out corruption in her own force is a necessity. Sure, sheâd be lauded for her vigilance and upright moral standards, but what was the point of bailing out the ship if you didnât plug the leak in the first place? If she wants to go after Camille, she has to find and snuff out any sources of information siphoning back to the Ferros matriarch.
So godsdamn complicated. Fuckâs sake. Abruptly, Grayson stops at the corner of an intersection.
Across the street is a two-story, white-washed homestead that was converted some two decades ago to hold apartments in the second story, and host a couple small businesses in the first story. The blue tile roof looks more slate gray, now that the sun has retreated behind the clouds once more. The front door is ajar. One plainclothes detective talks to a uniformed foot patrol enforcer on the front stoop. A brass placard near the door reads âUnited Bridges Coalition âPromoting Relations for the Future of Zaun and Piltover.â
Swiftly, Grayson turns on her heel and strides in the opposite direction.
She canât be seen here. Currently, affairs at Freeday Street have been quiet enough to stay out of the paper âand if theyâre going to connect this and the probable bribery of the 28th precinct back to the Ferros clan, things have to stay that way. The Sheriff of Piltover showing up at a possible crime scene will generate enough chatter among the rank and file alone. This isnât a time where she can afford to tempt leaks.
As she hurries back to the department building, Grayson does the math in her head. I should have an initial report in a few days ânext week at the latest, given Snowdown. Cragen has a few detectives casing out the 28th precinct patrols. Vander and Benzo are keeping tabs on things in case Coalition members show up in Zaun, alive or otherwise. She frowns, then turns her collar up against the wind. As if time could move any slower.
A particularly strong gust of wind cuts up under her overcoat. Grayson curses, then detours when a sign for a cafe catches her eye. Fuck this weather. I need some coffee.
âŚ
Wednesday; 6:07pm.
ââmove into a spin⌠very good!â
The familiar strains of Winterâs Waltz greets her ears as she steps over the threshold of your home. Grayson unwinds her navy scarf from around her neck âa gift from you, from your first year of dating. âHowâs she doing?â
âExcellent!â you call back from the sitting room. âSheâs a veritable master!â
âSheâs just saying that because I havenât stepped on her foot yet!â Vi interjects.
âNo, she isnât.â Grayson hangs her winter coat on its hook, then strides into the kitchen with the heavy paper bags from the local Persian market. âIt took me three years of work before she said I was passable.â She sets the package of chicken thighs to the side of the sink, then turns on the tap and starts rinsing some bundles of fresh mint, basil, and oregano. âHow is practicing in dress shoes?â
âHow does anyone walk in these?â Vi laments, gesturing at her feet. âThey have zero grip, theyâre so tight around the toes âthereâs no way anyone could run in theseââ
âTheyâre not supposed to hurt your toes,â Grayson interjects, looking over her shoulder. âI thought you said they were comfortable during the final fit check.â
âThey were âare,â Vi amends. âI just âtheyâre so fucking slippery. Itâs weird.â She bounces lightly on the balls of her feet a few times. âYeah, thereâs no way I could fight in these.â
âI think the idea is that you donât fight while wearing them,â Grayson retorts with a teasing smirk.
You make a noise of disagreement over the music and her bustling in the kitchen. âI seem to recall an incident where you ran down one of the inventors from House Wolf in full black tie at one of Councilor Hoskelâs soirees and slammed him against the bar⌠what, just one year after we got married?â
âHe was a cousin of Yancy Wolf,â Grayson corrects you. She runs her tongue over her teeth in distaste. âAnd he spiked a thirteen year old girlâs drink.â She snaps a few dead leaves of mint off the stem with more force than strictly necessary. âI was perfectly justified.â
âNo oneâs debating that,â you agree. âBut, regardless, you were in a tux and some very nice leather wingtips.â
âI made do in the moment,â Grayson demures. She glances at Vi âwho seems impressedâand shrugs. âI have more experience in dress wear. The more you wear it, the more you become accustomed to it.â
âIf you say so,â Vi mutters.
Grayson snorts softly, then starts patting her herbs dry with a towel.
âGray?â
âYes, dearest?â
âWhat are we doing with her hair?â
âWhat âoh.â Grayson turns, frowning contemplatively, dries her hands, and walks over to you and Vi. âI hadnât thought about that.â
Vi sighs, equal measures resigned and exasperated. âIâm not going to dye itââ
âNo, no,â you assure her quickly.
âThat wonât be necessary,â Grayson agrees. âWe just need to pick a style.â
âRight.â Vi chuckles, but itâs strained. âDonât wanna scare the guests with the âgutter-Sump ratâ look.â
You purse your lips and glance up at Grayson. âDo we have time to schedule a cut?â
We could, Grayson thinks as Viâs shoulders visibly tense, but we wonât. âI think we can manage with a little pommade and the right brush.â She puts a hand on Viâs shoulder and tries to smile reassuringly. âJust to keep it out of your face while youâre dancing. Weâre not changing your look entirely.â
âIf you say so,â Vi mumbles weakly.
âI can get the produce rinsed and put away,â you say as you turn off the record player. âGray, why donât you and Vi work on her hair?â
âSure.â She leads Vi to the bathroom attached to the master bedroom, and motions for Vi to stand in front of the mirror over the sink.
Viâs practically standing at attention, stiff as a board while Grayson studies the rough style and side shave. She stares down at the porcelain sink basin, jaw locked tight. The tattoo on her cheek jumps when her jaw muscles start twitching. âWhatâs the plan?â
âIâm not sure, yet,â Grayson admits. âDo you mind if I touch your hair?â
âDo your worst.â
âIâll try not to,â she chuckles. âMy personal worst is a time when I managed to singe off half my hair before a date.â
Vi snorts. âHow did you manage that?â
âWell, I was pretty new out of the Enforcerâs Academy,â she admits. âBack then, there were regulations for how women could wear their hair. It had to be at least shoulder length, so I had to grow it out before I could even enroll.â
âThatâs stupid,â Vi grumbles.
Grayson grunts in agreement while combing her fingers through Viâs hair. âAnyway, I was getting ready for a date, and I was so damn nervous that I wasnât thinking about what the fuck I was doing, so I bent down over a lit candle andâŚâ
âOh no.â Viâs expression morphs to a mix of humor and wide-eyed horror. âDid you burn yourself?â
âLuckily, no. I was in my bathroom, so I just turned on the taps and shoved my head into the sink. But my hair was pretty badly burnt, and I only had a couple of hours before the date, so I had to cut off the burned bits, then try to make the other side match and make it all look somewhat decent.â
Vi snickers. âWhatâd your date think?â
âWellâŚâ Grayson smirks. âShe agreed to marry me about five years later, so Iâd say things worked out.â
âDamn. Your old lady mustâve been down bad for you.â
Grayson snorts, then picks up a wooden comb. âI was very lucky that she found âawkward and hopelessâ endearing, rather than off-putting.â
Vi grins, but stills when Grayson starts combing her hair back. âWhatâs the damage?â
âNot as bad as you may think.â Slowly, gently, Grayson works the comb through Viâs pink locks. The younger womanâs mohawk is ragged and uneven âprobably on purposeâbut Viâs hair is still long enough to be combed back neatly. âIâd suggest freshening up the sides, and then we could probably pin the rest back with a few clips.â She holds Viâs hair in place so that the younger woman can assess the hypothetical look for herself. âWhat do you think?â
Vi quirks her mouth to one side, more a grimace than a smile, as she assesses her reflection. âNot terrible.â When Grayson arches one eyebrow in the mirror, she looks away. âJust⌠You canât polish a Sump-snipe.â
âI see.â She doesnât âshe knows she doesnâtâbut she recognizes Viâs reluctance and discomfort as the same kind you bore during her early years with you. Before you settled into your skin. Before youâd settled into the concessions necessary to live this life. Grayson heeds experience and waits, quiet and unjudging, while Vi wrestles with her feelings.
âCan⌠Can I talk to your lady for a minute?â Vi asks after several long, agonizing moments.
âOf course.â Grayson fetches you and switches back to washing the herbs and prepping the chicken. Thereâs not much left, but she dawdles on purpose, takes some extra time to tidy up the kitchen and watch the gray, cloudy sky out the windows.
Eventually, she hears you come back downstairs with Vi. The two of you chat indistinctly in the foyer for a moment, and then the front door creaks open before thumping shut again.Â
âIs everything alright?â she calls over her shoulder.
You hum in response as you amble into the kitchen. âVi had errands to run.â You smile when she holds out one arm, then wrap your arms around her waist as you step into her embrace. A soft, contented sigh escapes you. âHi.â
âHello.â Grayson tucks your head beneath her chin. âHow did dance practice go?â
âSheâll be fine,â you assure her. âSheâs got a good sense of coordination and timing.â
You shrug. âItâs a rough transition, and sheâs just at the start of it.â
She kisses the top of your head. âCan I ask what you two talked about?â
âShe wanted to know what it was like for me, living and working up here, and marrying you.â You stroke your fingers along the front of her shirt, absently playing with one of the buttons. âHow I got to a point where âplaying along with Topsideâs rulesâ didnât bother me so much.â
Grayson hugs you tighter. âAnd?â
âIt took time.â You tilt your head back and smile up at her. âWhich you already knew.â
âI do,â she agrees with a soft smile of her own.
âAnd I told her that I kept my goals front and center âbecoming a journalist; breaking new boundaries; working to bring inequality to light; increasing upper education opportunities for Trenchers. That it helped to have that focus because it didnât feel like I was abandoning my home and history once I got a taste of âsomething better.ââ
Grayson winces sympathetically.
âAnd it got easier once I learned that having nice things and dressing in nice clothes doesnât mean Iâve âchanged sidesâ or âlost touch with my roots,â you go on. âAnd again, when I realized that I canât make everyone happy. That there will always be people on both sides trying to discredit me by calling me a gold digger, or a class traitor. Or by saying I abandoned my people, or claiming that Iâm a âterrorist-in-waiting.ââ
âI remember those letters,â Grayson comments. âLots of run-on sentences.â
âGood use of the word âcapricious,â though.â You smooth the edge of her collar with your thumb. âAnd I told her that there will always be hoops to jump through. Always an element of playing Piltoverâs game. And that she has to decide what sheâs willing to play at, and whatâs a line too far to cross.â
âDo you think sheâll be alright?â
You sigh. âI think she and Caitlyn need to have some very serious, very realistic conversations about their relationship, privilege, and social boundaries, and they need to have them soon. Beyond thatâŚâ Your gaze goes far away for a moment, and then you shrug. âI donât know. I had it easier than she does. My father made more money âenough to keep us from outright destitution. We werenât stuck in the Lanes. Viâs parents died on Bloody Sunday, and she grew up in the roughest parts of Zaun.â
âThe culture shock is stronger,â Grayson surmises.
âIt is,â you confirm with a nod. âOnly time will tell.â
âAgreed.â She rubs one hand over your shoulder, then kisses the top of your head again before letting you go. âCan I interest you in some tea?â
âOoh.â You flit over to the shelf boasting (part of) your sprawling collection of mugs. âTwist my arm, why donât you?â
Grayson chuckles, then carries the kettle over to the sink.
âŚ
Thursday; 10:23 am.
âCouncilor Hoskel has requested we give greater attention to door check procedures upon entry to and exit from the Gala Hall.â
âCouncilor Hoskel wouldnât be able to find his own ass with both hands if said ass and hands werenât attached to his body.â Halfway through scanning the third page of the sea port precinctâs yearly evaluation report âthe Council had made note of âan alarming reduction in closed cases,â but Grayson was hard-pressed to pinpoint precisely what the hell they were talking aboutâGrayson stopped and looked sharply at Marcus. âSince when have we performed door checks upon exiting official functions?â
Entry checks were standard âconfirming possession of an official invitation, checking coats and bags, and holding any firearms or weapons in a guarded safe for the duration of the event were standard procedure for any formal, publicly funded event in Piltover. The purpose of the procedure was to create order and ease for the attendees. While Grayson has only ever served during one out and out clan war, surrendering all weapons was a formality, really. An unspoken promise that ensured no one would be using the soiree to intimidate rivals âor, more importantly, that party-goers wouldnât have weapons on hand in a crowded room after getting drunk on champagne and whatever spirits the open bar provided.
Marcus arches one thick eyebrow at her. âIt might be prudent, given that we have a bunch of Trench interlopers on the guest list this year.â
Grayson arches an eyebrow at him in return. âThatâs one way to describe the reconciliation efforts between Piltover and the Undercity.â
Granted, sheâd been just as surprised when a tentative treaty had formed between the two cities. Centuries of animosity donât just vanish overnight. And yet, after Heimerdinger stepped down from the Council to pursue academic and inventive ventures, a proffer to Zaun from the Council quickly followed.
Truthfully, itâs a paltry offer âone that raised several protests on both sides. Zaunâs access to the Hextower and trade guilds was still limited; there werenât any offered legal recourses for those in Stillwater; there was absolutely zero mention of reparations and humanitarian aid to the trenches, despite Piltoverâs mining practices having wrecked the local atmosphere (as youâd been quick to point out).Â
Sheâd been more surprised when Vander âamong othersâhad accepted the offer. Sheâd been even more skeptical when the riots and rage in the Lanes were snuffed out shortly thereafter. Years of detective work and city management didnât leave her an optimist, true, but youâd been shocked and mistrusting, too.
Sheâs seen the silhouette of a greater presence lurking in the smog and shadows of Zaun for decades now. Pensive silences and deflection from Vander and Benzo alike; the curious monuments of rotted eyes that pop up at random around the Lanes; the influx of trade leaving the docks with inspection records that are too clean (because typically thereâs at least some note of ships needing to change riggings, or to adjust duty rosters to fit legal standards, but the absence of any issues is practically a beacon indicating that somethingâs not quite right); Zaun-founded businesses popping up and competing easily with Piltovan rivals, but with minimal records about the source of their investors; Shimmer flowing from practically every crevice, with virtually no way of stemming the tide or finding the source.
However, as far as Graysonâs concerned, the closer Zaun gets to Piltover, the closer whoever âwhateverâis powering the cityâs growing empire has to swim to the surface. For now, Grayson can be patient, net in hand, and watch the shifting waters.
âTheyâre all reputable business-people and socialites,â Grayson says at last.
âBarons,ââ Marcus spits, sneering. âTheyâre thugs who rule the territories of the Sump.â
âHow they choose to govern their city is none of our concern.â
âIsnât it?â Marcus smacks his fist atop her desk. âTheyâre criminals. You and I both know it! Theyâre producing Shimmer, flouting tax laws, dealing in illegal weapons tradesââ
âAll the evidence at our disposal indicates that only a few select individuals are involved in potentially illegal dealings, and those few are not on the guest list,â Grayson interjects firmly. She stares Marcus down when he scoffs. âNor are our findings grounds to treat every single member of the Undercity like an inevitable criminal.â She holds Marcusâs gaze until he lowers his eyes. âWeâre not adding another unnecessary step and even more manpower to an already complicated event. Councilor Hoskel will simply have to adjust his attitude.â
âHe wonât.â Marcus insists. âYou know he wonât.â
âThat doesnât mean he gets to dictate the actions of this office âor my enforcers.â
âIf anything happensââ Marcus scowls and points at her. âIf anything happens, no matter how trivial, heâll make it out to be your fault! Heâll âheâll smear you to everyone he knows. To the whole Council! Heâll try to ruin your reputation!â
Grayson sighs, then offers Marcus a small, fond smile. âIâve dealt with Hoskel before. His tantrums are loud, yes, but rarely do they amount to anything more than a meager annoyance.â
âHe could turn the whole Council against you!â
âI sincerely fucking doubt it,â she laughs. âHoskel is only on the council because his family has the largest vineyards in the region, and therefore has enough money and status among the Merchantâs Guild to warrant a seat at the table. Only Salo takes him seriously, and theyâre hardly a prize scholar, either. Besidesââ She sets the report aside, then stands and adjusts her uniform jacket. âI didnât make it this far without keeping my eyes open and making friends of my own. If Hoskel starts playing the victim, Iâm more than ready and able to shut him up.â
Marcus stands, expression doubtful. âWhat, are you going to have your Missus write an expose on him?â
âDonât tempt her,â Grayson chuckles.
Marcus lets out a bleak laugh. âWhat should we tell Hoskel in the meantime?â
âIâll talk to him.â Grayson opens one of the doors to her office, takes a file from Lanaâs awaiting hands, then holds the door open as Marcus makes to leave. âAnd Iâll tell him to stay out of the wine and keep both hands on his purse instead.â
âŚ
Thursday; 1:20pm.
âIâm certain you understand the history of friction leading to such suspicions.â
âI do. Given the fresh, tenuous nature of the truce between our two cities, mandating pocket checks upon exit is nothing short of a disastrous idea.â
Back perfectly straight, not one hair out of place from its elegantly coiffed and decorated updo, Councilor Mel Medarda sets her glass of wine back on the table without so much as a clink. âIt is.â Primly, she sets her fork and knife across her plate âchina, decorated with delicate, geometric blue designs vaguely reminiscent of the Hextech runesâat an angle, each piece parallel to each other. Before she so much as blinks, a server clad in a white tux and black tie clears away her plate and the remains of her meal âroast duck, charred greens, potato puree, and an exquisite Bearnaise sauce. âIâll speak with Hoskel. Iâm confident he can be convinced to trust in the capabilities of his own personal security guards.â
âYour support is much appreciated, Councilor,â Grayson says sincerely. She sets her own silverware on her plate in the same fashion as Mel, then leans back as a server removes her plate âsheâd opted for spiced pork loin with silken braised greens. She stands when Mel does, then extends one hand as Mel rounds the table. âThank you for taking time to meet with me today, Councilor.â
âThe pleasure is all mine, Sheriff.â Mel clasps her hand with a surprisingly, but not excessively firm handshake. âAlthough, before we part waysââ
Fuck.
âI did want to let you know in person,â Mel says as her schooled, pleasant expression strains at the edges with exasperation. âMy mother is keen to attend Piltoverâs âsociety event of the year.ââ
Fuck my life. It takes an entire lifetime of training âboth from work and her upbringingâto keep her expression neutral. âThank you for letting me know.â As Grayson releases Melâs hand, she adds, âJust so youâre aware, I will not be making exceptions for party members or security staff who try to carry weapons into the event âmagical or otherwise.â She adjusts the cuff of her sleeve, aiming for nonchalant as best she can. âAnyone found unwilling to comply with the Gala rules will be barred from the event.â
Melâs smile turns wolfish, teeth bared with scarcely constrained delight. âIâd expect nothing less from an officer of your experience and caliber, Sheriff.â
âŚ
Thursday; 5:54pm.
Grayson returns home to find her dining room table turned into a veritable display of china, crystalware, and cutlery âAh.â She kicks out of her boots, then shucks her overcoat and hangs it on an open hook. âTaking a refresher course, are we?â
âThis makes no goddamn sense!â Vi laments as she slumps back in her seat.
âSheâs got it all down,â you call over your shoulder. âJust a last minute review to lock everything in.â
âExcellent.â She hangs up her uniform belt and jacket, then heads upstairs to change and freshen up. Once she returns to the main floor, she can hear the familiar clinks of dishes being put away âand Viâs voice.
âOne of these dumb glasses could feed a family in the Sump for three months,â Vi says, tone flat and dejected.
Your voice cuts over the rattling of china. âI know.â
Grayson stops at the foot of the stairs. She doesnât want to interrupt. She wants Vi to be able to vent freely to you. Sheâs worked hard to earn Viâs trust, but none of that can trump your shared experiences of growing up beneath Piltoverâs shadow.
âAnd you said these arenât even the expensive ones!â
âRelative to the industry, theyâre not.â
Vi lets out a groan. âBut the ones at the gala will be.â
You hum in confirmation. âSome of the highest quality pieces in the industry âmaybe second only to Councilor Medardaâs private collection.â
âFuck. And yours were gifts?â
âWedding presents from Graysonâs grandmother.â
Thereâs a pause, punctuated only by the gentle thumps of the doors on the china cabinet swinging shut.Â
âYou know itâs all bullshit, right?â
âI do.â
âTheyâre âtheyâre up here throwing parties, rotting in their wealth, while we starve beneath their feet!â
âI know.â
Vi scoffs. âI donât know. Maybe you have it figured out. Is it better on the other side of the bridge?â
Grayson purses her lips and clasps onto the wooden banister to keep from barging in. Sheâs sympathetic to Viâs fury, but protective of you even more so. Still, sheâs old enough and wise enough to know that shoving in is going to send the wrong message. Let her handle this.
âIâm not going to sit here and deny my privilege,â you answer after a long moment. âI have a prestigious job, and I married a woman with generational wealth. I have constant, reliable access to clean water, breathable air, and nutritious food. Not to mention things like medical care, education, and recreation.â
âSounds pretty sweet to me,â Vi mutters.
âI came up here with a goal,â you state, voice firm. âI wanted to affect change and expose corruption.â
âEmptying an ocean with a teaspoon.â
Grayson grimaces. She suffers from the same feelings, most days.
âIt feels like that at times,â you admit. âButâ âthe smile is audible in your voiceâ âno one can say I went quietly.â
After a moment, when Vi doesnât reply, Grayson takes the moment of silence to amble into the dining room.
Immediately, Vi pales and straightens up. She greets Grayson with a stiff nod. âSheriff.â
Grayson smiles sympathetically. âJust Grayson.â She draws you into a half-armed embrace and kisses your temple. âGood day?â
âDecent enough.â You lean your head against her shoulder. âProtests against the overturned prison reform made getting to the university a little hairy.â
She winces. âI heard about that.â The offer to escort you over tomorrow rolls onto the tip of her tongue, but she holds back. Sheâs heard your lecture on mob mentality and the inciting nature of an Enforcerâs uniform more than once âand sheâll hear it again tonight, but not in front of Vi. Iâll bring it up after dinner. She kisses the top of your head, then lets you go and looks over at Vi. âYouâre welcome to stay for dinner. If you want to head out, I can walk you to the trolley.â
âNo âuh, thank you, no,â Vi stammers. She jams her hands in her pockets and shrugs, smiling nervously. âI need to get back to my sister.â
âOf course,â Grayson assents with a nod. âIâll get my coat.â
âRight. Oh, shit.â Vi stops halfway to the door and rummages through her pockets. âHow much were the suit and shoes? I donât have much, but I scraped together a little money to start paying you back.â
Grayson locks eyes with you over Viâs shoulder. Then, with as gentle a smile as she can manage, she places her hands on Viâs shoulders. âThereâs no need for that, Vi.â
âRespectfully, Sherâ Grayson,â Vi retorts, âeven though I donât think youâll charge me interest, Iâd rather get a jump on paying my debt to you.â
âThere is no debt,â Grayson insists.
Vi frowns, brows furrowing together. âWhat âwhat do you mean? I watched you pay Agatha. She didnât give you a freebie.â
âI mean that Iâm covering the costs. In full,â Grayson clarifies. âI didnât go into this with the expectation of making you pay for a tailored tuxedo and shoes.â
Vi sputters, expression morphing through stages of confusion, distrust, outrage, and then back to confusion all over again. âI can pay for my own expenses!â she insists, voice rising to a near shout. âIâm not some mangy, hangdog, alley mutt looking for pity!â
âYouâre not,â Grayson agrees.
Vi wrenches a faded cloth pouch stuffed with coins and paper money out of her pocket and jams it against Graysonâs chest. âThenââ
âAs youâve said, this is a different world youâre stepping into,â Grayson interjects, careful to keep her voice gentle. âOne that, as youâve so astutely pointed out, was built on the backs of your people and your home.â She glances purposefully over at the china cabinet âwhere the two crystal wine glasses sit prominently at the frontâthen back to Vi. âI want to cover the cost. Call it the perks of privilege.â
Viâs mouth twists into a tight frown. âAnd, what? Months, years from now? You need something from me, and weâll both know how much you spent getting me all spiffed up.â
âNo.â This time, Grayson is firm, meeting Viâs fire with her own. She looks Vi directly in the eye and says, âYou owe me nothing, Violet. No matter how things go between you and Caitlyn. No matter where you go, or what you do with your life.â With one hand, she gently pushes Viâs sack of money back against the younger womanâs chest. âThis is a gift, solely to try and make a ridiculous challenge instituted in your life by people who look down on you a little easier to surpass. End of story.â
Vi shakes her head, then turns on her heel and stomps out the front door. âYeah. Sure.â
Grayson shoots a despairing glance at you over her shoulder, then yanks her coat off its hook and rushes into the dark, cold evening air after Vi.
âŚ
Friday; 5:29 am.
ââcompletely unacceptable!â
The dry, hot air being blasted into the underground security hold for Piltoverâs council members borders on a desert gale. She can already feel the membranes her sinuses shriveling back in fear and desperation.
âIf this is their response to our doing the gracious thingââ
The overhead, faintly buzzing fluorescent lights cast the stone room in a harsh, unforgiving glow. Thereâs already a headache grinding away above her right eye, just behind her brow bone.
ââcredible threats against the very heads of our cityââ
Or maybe itâs just the hyperbolic whinging from all the talking heads.
âDrastic measures must be taken!â Councilor Hoskel slams his fist against the marble tabletop. âIf these Undercity mongrels think that they can terrorize the leaders of this city as they likeââ
âWe donât have any credible information identifying the source of these threats as of yet,â Councilor Medarda interjects. âAs it stands, the messages were intercepted barely two hours ago. Ifââ she continues, talking over Hoskelâs red-faced sputtering ââwe act rashly, weâll be all the worse for it. I need not remind all of youâ âat this, she scans the rest of the table, making eye contact with each councilor as she goesâ âthat the peace between Piltover and Zaun is incredibly fragile right now.â
âA peace theyâre determined to shatter!â Salo insists.
âWe donât know that,â Mel retorts, voice steely. âBased on our intelligence, there are none of the usual indicators in the messages that would link back to any of the well known, capable insurgent groups in the Undercity.â
Sometime in the pre-dawn hours of the night, several poster sized ânotesâ were glued to the Gala hall doors. Now, displayed on the center of the council table, they all appear to be made of similar butcher paper, with random, glued-down newsprint cutouts forming the various threats.
âSnOweDown Gala is Over!â
âWe will DeStory The Gala!â
âNo Gala! Merch-I-nts Will pay!â
âcounsel Gala will fail!â
âwe will End The Council!â
Graysonâs eyes narrow as she briefly scans each paper. Sheâll have more time to examine the threats later âand assign her domestic terror taskforce to the incidentâbut even on a first glance⌠Something about these feels off.
Once the night patrol had raised the alarm, Grayson was rousted out of bed âout of her comfortable, warm, wonderful bed she shared with youâhalf an hour before five in the morning. The perimeter of the Gala Hall was locked down âand the Council Hall, just to be safeâwhile canvassing for witnesses began. Meanwhile, sheâd been summoned to the fortified walls of the Councilâs bunker just to listen to the Council leaders panic and argue with each other.
Thereâs not enough coffee in the world for this bullshit.
âI agree with Councilor Medarda,â Jayce pipes up.Â
Out of all the council members, heâs the only one who maybe looks as fatigued as Grayson feels. Dressed in a simple, soot-smudged shirt and trousers, his hair is somewhat ruffled, and dark circles hang heavy beneath his eyes. He hardly looks the part of the polished, dashing boy wonder. According to the debrief from the officers in charge of securing and escorting the council members to the security bunker, heâd still been awake at his forge, hard at work on the next Hextech invention.Â
âAny reaction we make right now is going to be based on emotion, not fact. Peace is in the best interest of our people. We canât just throw it away because we panicked.â Quickly, Jayce hides a yawn with his fist, then scrubs his face with his hands. âMaybe Iâm speaking out of turn, but doesnât anyone else find it suspicious that these random anonymous threats showed up the day before the gala?â
Even with years of practice at keeping a neutral face, Grayson canât help but perk up a little, impressed. Not so green behind the ears after all.
âWhat do you mean?â Councilor Shoola asks from across the table.
âTo be frank, it seems convenient,â Jayce says with a tired shrug. âThis is the first year the Snowdown Gala is open to Zaunâs leaders and merchants. A decisionâ âhe shoots a sweeping glance in the directions of Hoskel, Salo, and Bolbokâ âmet with heavy protest by many members of this Council. And now, at the eleventh hour, the perfect justification to rescind our invitation drops in our laps?â
Councilor Shoola narrows her eyes âwhich, despite the hour and the fright surrounding the circumstances, are already accentuated with kohl liner and delicately gilded with gold paint. âSurely, youâre not suggesting that a member of this Council fabricated the threats?â
âThereâs more than just the Council invested in this,â Councilor Kiramann interjects. âMany representatives of the Merchantâs Guild were also opposed to the Undercityâs inclusion.â
âYou make it sound like both cities are waiting to implode,â Councilor Shoola fires back with a displeased sigh.
âIf thatâs the case,â Mel states, voice purposefully light, âthen perhaps we ought to cancel the Gala entirely.â
The uproar from the table is immediate and flabbergasted.
That actually might be nice, Grayson muses, carefully locking her expression into perfect, professional neutrality. My enforcers could spend the holiday weekend with their families. I could spend the night home with a book and some wine. Quickly, her thoughts divert to you and your garters âthe black lace ones she treasures so greatly. Or forgo the book entirely.
âSeeing as how no parties here are content with that solution,â Mel pipes up, nearly shouting to be heard over the chorus of malcontents, âthen we shall have to rely upon the advice of Sheriff Grayson.â
âThank you, Councilor Medarda,â Grayson replies once Mel makes eye contact with her. âAt this time, the investigation into the source and veracity of these threats is ongoing. I have shifts of guards stationed around the Gala Hall, and the venue itself has already been searched and cleared of any explosives or other weaponry.â
âDid the search teams find anything else?â Councilor Kiramann asks, hands primly folded on the table before her.
âNo. And thereâs no indication that any sort of weapon or explosive device was installed, then removed before we could locate it, or that there were any attempted break-ins into the Hall or its grounds,â Grayson continues.
âWhat about the threats themselves?â Jayce inquires with a skeptical grimace. âDo we know where they came from?â
âItâs still early,â Grayson says, shaking her head. âHowever, our domestic terror division is confident that these werenât issued by any of the regular incendiary groups.â
âHow are we supposed to act upon your departmentâs confidence?â Salo asks, expression pinched with fear and disdain. âYour investigators surely wouldnât have had time to enact a thorough investigation and interrogate the members of these groups. Are we just supposed to proceed on their hunches?â
She opens her mouth to reply, but a shuffle of blue out of the corner of her eye catches her attention. âGiven how close we are to the Gala,â she hurries, quickly pinning Marcus with a steely glare, âthere wouldnât be enough time to conduct that number of interrogations and yield credible results.â
Marcus stares back at her. Heâs pissed âthe tips of his ears always turn red when heâs hot under the collar. His eyes flash to the table, then back to her.
Grayson narrows her eyes at him. Donât you fucking dare. âI trust my domestic terror investigators,â she continues as Marcus falls back into line, âbecause theyâve had years to familiarize themselves with the activities of these gangs and their means of communication.â She faces the table once more, careful to make sure she looks at each council member while she speaks. âDomestic anti-terror is their only job. When our two cities first ventured towards peace, I founded this unit to make certain that greater access to Piltover wasnât an open invitation for retaliatory violence. Since the divisionâs installment, only three major attempts at disorder have made it to the stage of viable threats. The rest were caught before the radicals even had time to lay the foundation for bloodshed.â She stares at Salo, making sure to deliberately lock eyes with the Councilor. âIf they say these threats arenât from our regular actors, then I will take them at their word.â
âA new group, then,â Bolbok suggests. âOne your department isnât familiar with.â
âI sincerely doubt it,â Grayson retorts. âThe reason weâre so familiar with our regular offenders is because they have the income sources to sustain their efforts. In the Undercity, having access to that kind of money means affiliation with chembarons. Without those connections, thereâs little chance of any kind of movement gaining momentum.â
âWhich is why,â Grayson says with a deferential nod, âI have already installed greater security measures to ensure the Snowdown Gala is a peaceful and safe event for all its attendees. There will be officers on every entrance, constant patrols on the streets for the surrounding six blocks, and weâve prepared escorts for both Piltovan and Undercity attendees to make certain everyone makes it too and from the event without issue. Considering that we were already prepared to check all guests and workers for weapons or other contraband, and that the site itself is secure, I canât see what more we can doâ âshe glances at Melâ âaside from cancelling the event outright.â
Thereâs a pregnant pause as all the Council members look at each other.
âIâm sure youâll go through every effort to keep the peace, Sheriff,â Councilor Kiramann finally allows with a nod.
Grayson nods back. âAs I always do, Councilor Kiramann.â
âThen, if weâre all satisfied?â Mel looks around before continuing. âI think Sheriff Graysonâs efforts would be best served in overseeing the security for the Gala, and the investigation into these alleged threats.â
Grayson nods. âOf course.â She offers the table a short, respectful bow, then turns on her heel and leaves.
âYou canât just let Salo disrespect you like that,â Marcus hisses once theyâre far enough away from the table to not be heard.
âWhat you canât do is let him get a rise out of you every time he decides to be a jackass,â Grayson fires back. She presses the lift button for the ground floor, then pinches the bridge of her nose after the elevator doors slide shut. âAs I have told you for over ten years now, there is a process for managing the council members. They panic, they whine like school children, and they demand everything they want like toddlers. The last thing you doââ
âIs just give it to them,â Marcus finishes. He rolls his eyes, then lets out a heavy sigh. âWhere do they get the fucking nerve, looking down on us? Weâre the ones who do all the work to keep this city going! They just sit in their posh mansions, fat on cream and wine!â
âCultivated breeding,â Grayson replies drily. She smooths one hand over her hair, then straightens up when the elevator car lurches to a stop. She steps out, then flags down the nearest deputy. âTell Captain Alston to report to my office with their preliminary report on the composition of the threat notes. Marcus, I need you to head to the Gala Hall and oversee the patrols and inspections.â
âRight.â Marcus nods, then hesitates. âWhat are you going to do?â
She sighs. âI am going to go find some goddamn coffee.â
âŚ
Friday; 11:15am.
ââanalysis reflects that the structure of the messages is incongruent with past threats and communiques used by all three major gangs.â
Grayson nods as Captain Alston hands over a sheaf of papers. She briefly skims the analystâs synopsis, then flips through various photographs comparing the Gala Hall threats to previous declarations from Zaunâs most notorious radicalists. âHow confident are they?â
Across the desk, Alston smoothes a stray lock of dark auburn hair behind her ear. âConsidering that no reference has been made to any specific action, and that the attempts at âLanes-speakâ barely makes it across the bridge?â
âGods, you arenât kidding,â Grayson mutters. Educational disparity aside, these are pathetically obvious fakes. The âmisspellingsâ are just sad. She peers closer at the pictures of the newest âthreats,â then adds, âNot to mention that all these cutouts are from Piltovan newsprints.â
Alston blinks. âHow do you know that?â
âMarried a journalist,â Grayson says with a smile, âand then dutifully listened to her talk about classism and printing presses.â She holds the pictures out across the desk. âThe spacing between the letters of the whole words is too even. The Undercity still relies on manually positioned presses. Piltoverâs printers switched over to an automated Hextech-powered system four years ago.â
âI donât think I ever wouldâve noticed that,â Alston says, studying the photos carefully.
âThe single letters taken from letterheads and titles are a giveaway, too,â Grayson adds. âItâs the calligraphy-style filigree. Several major publications moved towards stylizing their prints so as to appeal to a âmore sophisticatedâ readership. Thatâ âshe points to a particularly ostentatious âGââ âis from Precipice Print. The ones with the little Hextech marks in the middle of the capital letters are from Progress News. They ran favorable stories on Hextech in its infancy. In return, House Talis helped innovate the automatic press system and did the first installation for Progress News.â
âI never heard about that.â
âIt was quite a scandal in the printing communities,â Grayson explains with a faint smirk. âRival companies were quite worried that Progress Newsâ increased printing capacity would put their rivals out of business.â
Alston offers her a bemused half-smile in return. âI take it your wife kept you abreast about all of this?â
âIn detail. Sometimes with daily updates.â She chuckles, but sobers again as Alston lays the papers on her desk for them both to examine. âGiven time, Iâm confident that a forensic chemical analysis of the paper cuttings will reveal that the composition of the newsprint paper is not a match with newsprint used by Undercity printing houses. And, call me biased, but somehow I doubt that self-respecting Undercity gangs would purchase topside newspapers for their intimidation efforts.â
Alston frowns, brows furrowing together. âNot even for the sake of symbolism? Or to shield Undercity printers from scrutiny?â
âTopside newspapers donât circulate to the Undercity,â Grayson counters as she shakes her head. âItâs a deliberate blackout on the part of the cityâs industry. Preserving jobs and relevance for local printing presses, not crossing the class lines, etcetera.â
âSo, anyone who wanted to cut apart a Piltovan newsprint would have to cross the bridge, purchase it here, then take it back to their base of operations,â Alston surmises quickly.
âItâs a lot of extra effort for results they could get without potentially exposing their operations and intentions,â Grayson agrees, nodding. âGranted, canvassing might turn up something, but nothing about any of thisâ âshe gestures to the papers looselyâ âsmells right. Especiallyââ
Alston raises one eyebrow when Grayson stops herself abruptly. â...Especially what?â
Especially since Zaun gained independence. Especially since new laws protecting the defendantâs rights passed despite notorious opposition. Especially since Zaunite merchants started becoming more competitive with Piltovan shipping houses. Especially since Zaun signed a shipping accord with Noxus.
Especially since Freeday street. Especially since the 28th precinct.
âNeed-to-know basis,â Grayson says, schooling her expression into stern neutrality.
Alstonâs eyebrows raise towards her hairline. She studies Graysonâs face for a moment, shock settling into trepidation, then cautious understanding. She nods. âIâll be sure to keep you abreast of any credible information my team receives.â
Relief and pride flow through Graysonâs veins. This âamong many othersâwas one of the reasons she promoted Alston and made her one of the domestic anti-terror department leaders. âThank you, Captain.â
Right as Alston turns to leave, Lana opens one of the double doors that lead to the hall. She extends one hand, holding out one of the glass tubes used for sending messages across the cityâs pneumatic system. âSheriff.â
Instantly, Grayson recognizes the universityâs logo etched into the glass at the top of the tube. She unlatches the cap, and withdraws a folded piece of paper with matching letterhead.
Itâs been too long since weâve taken some time together. Letâs get lunch and walk the river.
Grayson refolds the paper, tucks it into her breast pocket, then hands the tube back to Lana. âIâm taking lunch a little early. Iâll be back before two. Hold any messages for me until then.â
âŚ
Friday; 11:25am.
Despite the biting chill in the wind, Grayson finds herself grateful for the miserable weather. It grants her a good excuse to turn up the collar of her nondescript tan overcoat and pull the brim of her bowler hat a bit lower. The enforcerâs uniform tends to stand out in crowds âespecially the one tailored for the Sheriffâs rank. Itâs much easier to hide in plain sight with the same outer layers everyone else is wearing.
You find her first. An Undercity kid through and through, hiding in crowds is in your blood. You slide your arm into hers without missing a step. âI just love the decorations this time of year.â
Grayson adjusts her stride to better accommodate you. âItâs quite festive.â
âMm,â you hum in agreement. âThe lights make the city look so lively.â
âOh, yes.â She steers the two of you away from the Piltoverâs center âand away from the mercantile district dominated by the Ferros clan. She glances at the storefront windows âscanning for tails in their reflection. âLots of blue crystals this year.â
You snort without much amusement. âAlways best to be en mode.â
Grayson smirks, then squeezes your gloved hand fondly. âAnd mark up prices for a âHextech approvedâ collaboration.â She grins when you bark out a laugh, then guides you down a side street.
âMeteorological reports call for snow in the next couple days,â you continue as you squint up at the overcast sky.
âI read weâre supposed to have proper accumulation on the night of the gala.â
âOh, isnât that just wonderful.â
âOne might even call it auspicious.â
The cobblestone streets bustle with the usual amount of foot traffic. Despite the foreboding weather, shoppers are still out purchasing last minute Snowdown gifts, shift workers are thronging to and from factories, and vendors working outdoor stalls still call out to passersby.
Down the street, a flash of blue catches Graysonâs eye. Quickly, she ducks her head and steers you down a side alley before the patrolling enforcer has a chance to see either of you. âI was thinking about picking up dinner tonight.â
âThat would be lovely,â you reply. âIâm practically drowning in grading.â
This used to be easier, Grayson thinks as she flicks her gaze upwards. Suspicious, she stops to turn halfway and inspect the rooftops of the buildings behind you both, rising above each other as they get closer to the cityâs peak.
She likely wouldnât see anything, anyway. Her eyesight is fine, and years of shooting have honed in her instincts for minute, faraway details, but the flash of seasonal lights and fluttering tinsel make parsing everything out nigh impossible.
Lips pursed in an annoyed scowl, she turns and starts walking again.
âŚ
Friday; 11:40am.
Ahmadiâs is a small, slate-roofed diner that overlooks âPiltoverâs halfâ of the river. Tucked between taller complexes built out of sandstone and granite, itâs easy to miss if you donât know what youâre looking for. Heavy, cobalt blue velvet curtains trimmed with golden fringe and tassels line the front windows. The shopâs name is written across the windows in Farsi script and English in bold, bronze letters. The front door is painted a deep navy blue, with pretty red and yellow mosaic patterns painted on top that resemble poppies.
A brass bell rings overhead as Grayson holds the door open for you. Immediately, warm air thick with the scents of roasting meat, garlic, turmeric, and cumin washes over her. She takes off her hat and overcoat, hanging them on the racks provided just inside the shopâs entrance, then hangs your charcoal gray overcoat and forest green cloche hat up for you.
The two of you pick a booth all the way at the back of the dining room. The high, intricately carved ebony backs of the benches keep you both carefully hidden from the outside world. Right now, the diner is relatively empty. It would seem, as fortune would have it, that the two of you made it here just before the lunch rush. Even still, Grayson tucks herself further into the booth, just in case.
âIâm so glad you could make time for me,â you say, voice carefully light. Your expression is pinched, though, mouth tight and brows somewhat furrowed.
Grayson slides her hands across the table and takes your hands in hers. She rubs her thumbs over your knuckles. âI always have time for you.â
Five minutes later, the restaurantâs owner, Farhad, approaches with a tray. Two plates, each boasting a lamb shawarma sandwich with pickled vegetables, two cups of black tea, and a cucumber and mint salad to share. He sets the food down without a word, nods once to you both, then leaves.
Your hands shake as you pick up your cup of tea. You blow across the waterâs surface, sending steam wafting in the air. âI knew seven of them. Former students.â
Graysonâs heart sinks into her shoes. She closes her eyes, grief-stricken on your behalf, then opens them again with a sigh. âIâm so sorry, my darling.â She puts one hand over yours when you try to pick up the serving spoons, then scoops some of the salad onto your plate for you. âHow much have you heard about the latest publishing surrounding the Gala?â
âPrecipice Print is already drafting a headliner for this eveningâs print. Progress news has a more âin depthâ coverage piece ready to accompany a radio interview with Councilor Bolbok in the morning.â
âFucking hell.â Suddenly overcome with exasperation, Grayson takes a long, irritated swig of her tea. ââIn depth coverage piece.â There isnât enough information to cover a fucking teaspoon! Heâs just peacocking for his houseâs foundries. They took a major hit in industry-level competitiveness this year because, as it turns out, assuring quality in your fucking multi-million dollar marketing campaign donât mean shit if your quality assurance testers arenât doing their fucking jobs.â She scowls as she scoops some salad onto her plate. âAnd then it hits my department as a fraud investigation, and then the Council is up my ass because they chose to cut corners. Idiots.â
Finally, a bit of light returns to your eyes. You smirk. âEat your sandwich, dear.â
Grayson snorts, then does as sheâs told.
You stay quiet for a couple minutes, mostly twiddling with your fork, before asking, âYou think theyâre connected?â
Why not? Another thread in the worldâs shittest spiderweb. Grayson swallows, then catches your eye across the table. âDonât you?â
âOf course,â you reply without hesitating. âYouâre just not usually one for conspiracies.â
âI do prefer evidence to assumption. However,â she wipes her fingers on her napkin, âwhen an organization promoting unity between both cities âwhich so happens to be involved in a major labor violations protestâis suddenly wiped out with no trace, and a shitpile of false threats pop up against the yearâs largest society party that, for the first time in history, is including figures from across the bridge, the possibility of simple coincidence suddenly starts disintegrating.â
âThe threat notes are confirmed fakes?â
She nods, swallowing again. âI think they will be, once the investigation concludes. All of the letters used were from Piltovan print houses.â
You sit back in your seat. Shock washes across your face, before settling into disgusted bemusement. âThey didnât bother thinking about picking up a few Zaunite newspapers?â
âOr wouldnât,â Grayson chuckles, darkly amused. She takes a few bites of salad, before stopping halfway through fourth when she realizes youâre staring at her. She frowns, confused, and swallows. âSomething wrong?â
You inhale shakily. ââWouldnât?ââ
Too late, she realizes her mistake. Regret and panic sluice down her spine like melting snow, chasing away any exhaustion as adrenaline spikes through her bloodstream. Canât stuff the shit back in the horse. Grayson sighs, then nods. âItâs a personal theory.â
âBased on?â
If she could kick herself, she would. Sheâd kick herself for marrying the single-most brilliant woman to have ever existed, and then sheâd kick herself again because marrying said woman means all that unbridled genius is deeply, intimately familiar with the very patterns of her own logic and thought, and then sheâd kick herself a third time because she doesnât regret her equally foolish and intelligent decision to marry you in the least.
Grayson glances over her shoulder ânot that she can see the front doorâas the bell rings and the sound of chatter starts to flow into the dining room. She waits to make certain no oneâs approaching your corner of the Ahmadiâs, then leans in and murmurs, âThere are reports that Camille was seen near the Coalition.â
Your expression darkens, eyes going hard and murderous.
Which is hot.
And also troubling.
âYou need to stay out of this,â Grayson insists.
âI can make my own choices.â
âAnd I love that about youââ
âThese were my studentsââ
âCamille will kill you,â Grayson hisses. âIt doesnât matter that youâre my wife, or an esteemed academic. Sheâll kill you because she can. Her house has enough money to outrun the legal system.â
âGrayââ
âI cannot lose you,â she grits out, voice cracking as sudden thoughts of seeing you, cold and still in your casket, flit into her mindâs eye. She reaches across the table, squeezing your hand tight as she tries to catch your gaze. âMy love. Please.â
When you finally lift your head, the heartbreak on your face is the only answer she needs.
Grayson sighs. Bows her head. Curses silently. Then lifts your hands and kisses your knuckles. When she can bear to speak again, she says, âThen be safe. Please.â
You squeeze her hands back tightly, fiercely. âAlways.â
Grayson offers you a watery smile, then nods at your plate. âYou need to eat, too.â
You scoff, then pick up your sandwich and start eating.
A short while later, once youâve both finished your food, you retrieve a small, inconspicuous envelope from your purse and slide it across the table to her. âIâll get your coat and hat.â
Grayson thumbs open the unsealed envelope and quickly rifles through the papers folded inside. Itâs easier said than done âyouâve managed to tuck quite a bit into a very small packageâbut halfway through, she realizes youâve collected letters between you and your former students from the past six months. Names, addresses, mentions of friends and family members⌠She closes the envelope, tucks it inside her inner breast pocket, and says a quiet thank you to you (and to the universe for introducing her to you in the first place).
A few moments later, you return with her coat and hat, already dressed in yours. âI need to go. I have a meeting this afternoon.â
âAlright.â Grayson inclines her head for a kiss, then smiles as you wave good-bye.
Getting back into her hat and coat without leaving the booth is a bit of a trick, but she manages. She pulls her collar up around her face, then heads to the front counter, wallet in hand.
Before she can finish approaching, though, Farhad spots her and shakes his head. âShe already took care of the bill.â
Grayson stops in her tracks, stunned. Then, as the realization hits, she laughs and shakes her head. Brat.
âŚ
Friday; 4:15pm.
Caitlyn arrives at her office, shadowed by Marcus, precisely at a quarter past four. Her uniform dress is perfectly pressed. The cravat at her neck is flawlessly white âno doubt laundered within an inch of its life ahead of time. Her boots gleam, even in the waning winterâs evening light that streams through the windows of Graysonâs office. Not a hair out of place, not an errant speck on her uniform. Sheâs the model picture of both an Enforcer and the future head of House Kiramann âfastidious, duty-driven, and a consummate professional.
âSheriff.â Caitlyn nods respectfully, then holds a manilla envelope out across Graysonâs desk. âIâve curated a copy of my quarterly report, and the department statistics regarding the parallel Hextech market.â
Grayson quickly clocks the slight tremor in Caitlynâs hand, and suppresses a fond smile. âThank you, Detective Kiramann.â
âIââ Caitlyn reaches for the chair on the opposite side of Graysonâs desk, then halts when Marcus pulls it aside and sits down. âUm.â She falters for a moment, glancing between Marcus and Grayson, then straightens up and continues. âThereâs some promising developments in the work on the Hex-radio piracy ring.â
Grayson nods as she flips the envelope open and begins examining the report. âWhat came from the investigation into the suspect tower sites?â
âWellââ
âNothing concrete,â Marcus interjects. âThe Canal Overlook tower site was in violation of some minor safety regulations, but there wasnât anything else noteworthy.â
â...Actually,â Caitlyn continues after staring at Marcus for a moment, âI did a little digging, and I found some discrepancies in the interviews with the site workers.â
âWhatâ âGrayson flicks a glance at Marcus when he sighsâ âdid you uncover?â
âPages five and six,â Caitlyn supplies as she flips through her copy of the report. âJerrick Mast, the site manager, reported that nothing suspicious had happened, there wasnât any unusual interference on the lines that would suggest pirateers using the signals for their own broadcasts, no unusual surges of electrical power that would indicate a heavier load, etcetera. The employees in charge of the day and night broadcast teams, Dalton Bragg and Louis Wensforth, respectively, backed the site managerâs opinion. However, the day shift secretary, Hallie, reported âunusual static and chatterâ whenever the broadcasts would switch over to commercials, and she claimed that she saw a man matching the visual description of Sharkâs Eye hanging around outside the building at least once a month when she was leaving work.â
Grayson frowns down at the page in contemplation. âGreen glass right eye, black mustache, tattoos of nautical insignia and Kraken tentacles? He was arrested on charges related to overseeing the operations of a fake doctorâs office on the Promenade level that was distributing Shimmer to its patients last year.â
Caitlyn nods. âReleased two months ago on good behavior.â
Marcus snorts. âRight.â
Grayson shoots him a glare this time âa warning. I expect you to model professionalism, jackass. Even when talking about the goddamn recidivism rate. âDid you follow up?â
Caitlyn nods. âI went back to the station with a photo array containing a mugshot of Sharkâs Eye.â
âAnd?â
âSheâd been terminated from her position.â
Slowly, Grayson looks up at Caitlyn. No shit. âReally.â
âThe day lead said they didnât have her address in their records when I asked so I could follow up with her.â
âI am presuming,â Grayson says, âthat you already had her address from taking down witness particulars during questioning.â
Caitlyn nods. A small, pleased smile crops up on her lips, but she quickly smothers it by clearing her throat. âYes, Sheriff.â
âDid you manage to follow up with the secretary elsewhere?â
âI did. I located her apartment building, then managed to track her down at her new place of work by asking the buildingâs supervisor if sheâd mentioned finding a new jobââ
Marcus rolls his eyes. âAll on the departmentâs time, no doubt.â
âWhen else is she supposed to do it?â Grayson asks, staring Marcus dead in the eye. She waits the few seconds it takes for Marcus to gulp and sit up straighter, then returns her attention to Caitlyn. âAnd?â
âShe refused to speak with me,â Caitlyn answers. âI showed her the photo arrayââ
âIf she refused to speak with you,â Marcus interrupts, âthen how are you supposed to establish an identification?â
âI know she recognized Sharkâs Eye!â Caitlyn snaps. She glares down at Marcus, then turns back to Grayson and plants her hands on Graysonâs desk. âI saw it in her eyes! She saw him at the station!â
ââSeeing it in her eyes,ââ Marcus snipes back, âis not evidence. The black market for Hextech technology is growing by the dayââ
âHer firing was retaliatory! The site manager and shift leads are in on the radio wave piracy! Itâs the only explanation!â
âOr,â Marcus drawls, rolling his eyes again, âshe was trying to get back at a boss she didnât like. She couldâve been having an affair with one of the managers, it ended badly, and now sheâs trying to get them in trouble by making up lies for attention.â
âYouâreââ Caitlyn sputters and spins, red-faced. âYouâre just saying that because sheâs a woman going against the words of a man!â
Marcus lurches to his feet, scowling. âItâs the unverified statement of one witness against three other witnessesââ
âWho clearly all had time to get their stories straightââ
âEnough.â
Marcus and Caitlyn shut up and snap to attention in unison.
Grayson ignores both of them as she collects herself. She adjusts the position of her chair, straightens out Caitlynâs report on her desk, and drinks the last of the coffee in her mug âwhich has gone cold. She swallows it without flinching âeughâthen sets the mug back on her desk atop a coaster.
Her mug is ceramic, painted with songbirds and berries, and glazed to protect the design. Youâd made it for her at a âpottery for couplesâ class, some ten, fifteen years ago.
Grayson allows herself a moment of nostalgia and warmth as she thinks of you. Your curiosity. Your intellect. Your ferocity. She yearns, just for a moment longer, for this evening. For when she can finally be home, collapse into your arms, and bury her face in your tits.
Caitlyn and Marcus watch her like deer in headlights when she finally looks back up. Theyâre already standing at attention, but somehow draw themselves up straighter under her stare.
Grayson counts to five in her head to let them sweat just a touch longer. âThis department is nothing without cooperation between our officers.â She smiles politely âwhich both Caitlyn and Marcus see for the threat it is, given how they both flinch. âI should not have to fucking spell out that I expect my officers âat all levels of employâto treat each other, their work, and their experience with dignity and respect.â
âYes, Sheriff.â
âYes, maâam.â
Grayson lets the silence stretch out again, counting to fifteen this time because itâs the end of the work week and sheâs tired enough to feel petty. âThisâ âshe taps the report and looks up at Caitlynâ âis good work.â
Caitlyn perks up. âThank you, Sheriff.â
âBut,â Grayson continues. âAssistant Sheriff Marcus is correct. While I agree that the differing accounts and sudden termination are suspect, there isnât enough information to establish anything credible.â She folds the envelope shut. âKeep searching. Cast a wider net. Cases are like tables âtheyâre built on four legs, not one.â
Grayson nods back, smiles encouragingly, then shifts her attention to Marcus.
He recoils, just slightly. Thereâs even a few beads of sweat dotting his hairline.
Grayson bites back a smirk. âI trust, Assistant Sheriff, that you will lend Detective Kiramann your open, unfettered support in the course of her investigation.â
âYes, maâam.â
âAnd that you will accommodate the man hours it will take her to conduct her investigation without harrying or aggravation.â
A pained grimace, this time. âYes, maâam.â
âGood.â Grayson nods to Caitlyn. âDetective.â
Caitlyn nods back, then takes her cue and exits the office.
âOne moment, Assistant Sheriff,â Grayson says as Marcus turns on his heel to follow Caitlyn out the door, to the relative safety of the outer hall. She waits until Lana closes the door after Caitlyn, then locks onto Marcus with a withering, sour glare. âWhat the fuck was that?â
Marcus sighs and deflates like a slashed tire. He sags into the chair across her desk. âIâm sorry.â
ââSorryâ doesnât fucking cut it,â Grayson hisses. âHaranguing young female officers for doing their fucking jobs is a one way ticket to a disciplinary hearing and shitting away your pension!â
Marcus lowers his head into his hands. âI know,â he moans plaintively, voice muffled by his leather gloves. âI know.â
âManifestly not,â Grayson retorts, âconsidering the chauvinistic dick-measuring display I just had to witness.â
âGraysonââ
âDonât.â She narrows her eyes, watching as Marcus wilts before her. âAre you suffering from a traumatic brain injury? Did you go swimming in the Pilt and wind up with one of those brain-eating worms up your nose? Because, barring either scenario, I canât fathom a reasonable explanation for the ogre-like performance you just gave.â She arches an eyebrow, unsympathetic, when Marcus groans. âFor the record, the critics are panning you.â
âSheâs a spoiled brat!â Marcus finally spits out.
Grayson stares at him, unimpressed. âI will infer you are referring to Detective Kiramann, a trusted and valued member of our force.â
âShe is!â he seethes, finally meeting Graysonâs flat, cold stare with a look of outrage and disbelief. âSheâs had everything handed to her in life, and she still expects it to be that way! She ignores any and all protocols for assignments, goes over any superiorâs head without warning or prior request for a meeting, sheâs constantly conducting her own investigations without authorization, or checking inââ
âThis,â Grayson interjects, tapping the manila folder containing Caitlynâs report with her index finger, âisnât that.â
âYou have to tell her âno,ââ Marcus insists. âGive an inch, she takes a mile.â
âAnd this report,â Grayson repeats more sternly, âisnât misbehavior. Caitlyn is right. The sudden termination and description of Sharkâs Eye reeks of retaliation and intimidation!â She scowls, then leans over her desk when Marcus sighs and shakes his head. âI expect an officer of your rank and experience to be able to separate conduct issues from a tenable investigation. Pull this shit again, and Iâll put you on off-duty status faster than you can fucking blink.â
With one last sigh, Marcus finally straightens up and nods. âYes, maâam.â
âI mean it, Marcus. Your rank implicates the whole unit beneath you. Add Kiramannâs family name to the mix, and youâve got the whole department yanked into a sexual discrimination lawsuit. If she wasnât so determined to have this job, weâd already be in the shit.â
âI know.â
âThen fucking act like it.â With a final glare, Grayson waves him off. She sets Caitlynâs report in a folder stand, off to the side, then picks up her mug and lifts it to her lips.
Empty.
God fucking dammit. Grayson all but throws the mug back onto her desk. She closes her eyes, counts to ten, then opens her eyes and presses the button on her intercom system. âLana. Would you bring me a fresh cup of coffee, please?â
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